The days in Tuscany slipped by like watercolor on paper bleeding, blending, becoming something neither of them could name but both felt deeply. The cottage, though humble, became their sanctuary. There was no staff, no business calls, no designer clothes only simplicity and the raw edges of two people learning how to coexist in a fragile truce.
Alexander woke before Isabella most mornings, sitting on the porch with his coffee, the sunrise warming his face. He read sometimes fiction, sometimes books about art, psychology, or ancient war strategies. Things she never expected him to enjoy. She would paint in silence near him, both of them comfortable in their own worlds that somehow intertwined like ivy growing around an old fence.
But not all moments were peaceful.
One evening, as thunder rolled softly over the hills and a storm gathered on the horizon, Isabella found Alexander sitting alone in the cottage, staring at an old photo she hadn't seen before.
"Who's that?" she asked gently, approaching him.
He hesitated. "My brother."
She blinked. "You never told me you had a brother."
"I don't," he said, his voice heavy. "Not anymore."
The storm outside seemed to draw closer, mirroring the tension in the room.
"What happened?" she asked, sitting beside him on the worn couch.
"He died when we were teenagers. Car accident. He was seventeen. I was fifteen." He swallowed. "I was the one driving."
Her breath hitched. "Alex…"
"I shouldn't have had the keys. I begged our father to let me take the car. I just wanted to impress my friends." His fingers curled around the edge of the photo. "He never made it home."
Isabella reached out, placing a hand over his.
"You were a child," she said.
"I became a monster that day. My father made sure I never forgot. Said I had to be twice the man my brother was to make up for the loss."
"You've carried that weight ever since," she whispered.
He nodded. "I buried the guilt under ambition. Power. Control. But none of it brought him back."
She gently took the photo from his hand and set it down. "You don't have to keep punishing yourself."
The silence between them was soft this time. Healing.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"For what?"
"For not running."
"I promised I wouldn't," she replied. "But you have to promise me something too."
"Anything."
"When we leave this place… when we go back to the world… don't become him again."
His gaze found hers, something flickering in his eyes fear, maybe, or hope. "I won't. Not if you're with me."
---
The next day brought a letter.
A local courier on a motorbike delivered it. No return address. Just Alexander's name written in neat, deliberate strokes.
He opened it on the porch while Isabella painted nearby. She didn't notice the way his posture stiffened. How his fingers gripped the page too tightly.
She looked up. "Everything okay?"
He folded the paper too quickly. "Yeah. Just something from a supplier back in Milan."
He tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Later that night, after she fell asleep, he stood by the window, reading the letter again by candlelight.
You can't hide forever, Alexander. We both know the sins of the father never stay buried. Come home. Or we'll dig them up for you.
It wasn't signed. But he knew who it was from.
And he knew exactly what it meant.
---
The next morning, Isabella found him packing a small bag.
"Where are you going?" she asked, brows furrowing.
"There's something I need to take care of. Just for a few days."
Her heart sank. "Alex…"
"I'll come back. I promise."
"You're lying."
His jaw clenched. "I'm trying to protect you."
"Don't you dare. Don't fall into that pattern again making choices for me."
"This isn't just about me, Isabella. It's about you. About what could happen if I ignore this."
She stepped forward, anger simmering beneath her voice. "Then let me in. Let me fight with you."
He hesitated.
"I can't lose you," he said softly.
"Then don't leave me behind."
A long pause. The candle on the table flickered, casting shadows across his face.
"Okay," he finally whispered. But if things get dangerous
"We face them together."
He nodded, reluctant but unable to argue.
---
They left the next day.
Back to Milan. Back to the world they had fled.
But everything had changed.
The shadows were waiting.
And this time, neither of them could afford to run.
Because embers buried too long would always rise again.
And what burned next… might consume them both.